


In A Mirror Dimly

by GloriaVictoria



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Homecoming, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Identity, M/M, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), Pre-Movie: Pacific Rim (2013)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 12:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14618139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaVictoria/pseuds/GloriaVictoria
Summary: Newton Geiszler can barely recognize himself after it's all over. Thankfully, Hermann remembers."For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known."





	In A Mirror Dimly

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary from 1 Corinthians 13:12. 
> 
> I can't take credit for Newt calling Nate Lambert "Nick", that was all Sarah1281. Thanks, bro.
> 
> ******* Like my work? Consider supporting it by buying me a Ko-Fi! https://ko-fi.com/C0C5CWYM *******

Newt couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at himself in the mirror, but he _did_ remember how it had made him feel -- like gazing directly into the fucking Twilight Zone. He hadn’t recognized the man looking back: hair combed down, tamed; tattoos hidden behind expensive silk shirts and suit jackets; eyes shielded by colored lenses, his vision a perfect 20/20. He’d stared at this man for a long time before punching the mirror, shattering it and shredding his knuckles so badly he had to wear bandages for a week.

He used to love looking at himself in the mirror. He had _loved_ the way he looked, mostly due to the fact that he’d curated himself so carefully, so purposefully. Newton Geiszler wasn’t just a guy -- he was an _identity,_ crafted specifically to piss off the kinds of people that he didn’t like: the teachers who had underestimated him, the parents who had abandoned him, the friends that talked shit when he turned his back. At some point, he’d decided to show them all the power of this little shrimp of a man they disrespected, that despite their doubts, he could achieve anything. Literally anything, and do it his way to boot.

At some point, this turned into a quest to transform himself into the most atypical, out-of-the-box academic he could, a rockstar scholar utilizing his preferred punk aesthetic to flagrantly push his university’s dress code to its limits. This manifested itself through ripped knees in his jeans, obnoxiously thin neckties, purposefully crooked, leather jackets decorated with curse words and band names nobody recognized -- he still had a few of his old belts from Hot Topic and by God, he dragged those out as often as possible, too. Looking at him, you’d never guess he’d made a career of total academic supremacy-- which was, of course, the whole point. Every day, he glanced at himself in the mirror by his door with pride, giving himself a wink before heading to work. _Hot._

Six PhDs later, he found himself incredibly bored. He’d honestly gotten the last two just to occupy himself while he waited for his IRB to approve his latest research proposal. On a whim, he took to Google to find out what other, inferior researchers had come out with. After all, how else does one form an identity but by comparing themselves to others? He’d listened in philosophy. Sort of. He found nothing of any interest the first week, though he really appreciated seeing all the articles citing his work. More proof, more validation that _he’d made it._

Three days later, he stumbled across the research that finally gave him pause -- a totally bizarre article exploring the quantum mechanics of theoretical multiverses, complete with mathematical formulae hypothesizing the nature of their physical forces, how they function, could one inhabit such a space? After a cursory scan, he stared at it for a good half hour with a doofy grin on his face. He’d been totally stupefied, not because of its outlandishness -- most of the reviews attached to it either tore it completely apart or simply attested to how incredibly far the theories reached without actually getting to the core of the work.

He’d finally found a _challenge_.

Not that Newton wanted to fight the dude or anything, but as an academic rockstar, he needed a rival, a contemporary, someone to measure himself up to. Without that, how could he confirm that Dr. Newton Geiszler had indeed dominated the game?

So he wrote Dr. Hermann Gottlieb a letter and waited. Eventually, he got a response written in gorgeous, symmetrical cursive, thanking Newt for his kind words and interested in his work. Why yes, he _had_ heard of him, his investigation of nonlinear cephalopod evolution had impressed him a great deal. Newt had grinned like an idiot for days after reading that letter. He wrote another, and Gottlieb wrote him back, and soon they were penning letters to each other nearly every week. First, they only talked about their research -- Gottlieb celebrated with him when his research passed the IRB, Newt challenged Gottlieb’s theories and equations. They’d entered a sort of dance, a call-and-response for lonely geniuses in need of validation.

Eventually, that changed. One day, Newt received a letter that threw that pattern into a complete tailspin.

_Dear Dr. Geiszler,_

_Forgive me for not writing you sooner. My mother passed away last week, and I have been in Garmisch-Partenkirchen with my family. I promise I will take a look at your article, I have not forgotten. Next time I write, I hope to have something more to say. Words have failed me as of late._

_Best,_ _  
_   
HG.

The letter wasn’t particularly outlandish. Newt just hadn’t expected to read something so personal and painful, hadn’t thought that their relationship had reached that point. In fact, he had tried to avoid it -- Newt didn’t really need friends, right? He had everything he needed in himself, the perfect package. Yet here Gottlieb had trusted him. No longer did he consent to serve as the mirror for Newt’s ego, and that troubled him. How could he even write back?

Despite Newton’s misgivings, he _did_ write back. He found himself pouring out thoughts and feelings he’d kept bottled up for years: stories about his Uncle Illia, that time he’d gotten jumped in the school parking lot and earned himself a black eye, the first time he’d kissed a girl (and a boy). Hermann responded in kind, and Newt quickly figured out that in this, too, he’d found a double. Hermann’s life hadn’t been quite so exciting -- less alcohol and parties, more all-nighters -- but what he _did_ have in common with Newt was the penetrating loneliness of genius, the inability to really fit in. While Newt had elected to stubbornly carve out his own place, Hermann had decided to forego one entirely, comfortable with slipping into the gown of the quiet intellect. Seventy-five letters ago, he'd have laughed and wondered how anyone could settle for less than greatness.

But Hermann hadn't settled: he'd chosen to protect himself, and _this_ Newt could understand.

Newt finally got up the courage to ask for a photo, sending his own with his next letter. They'd been talking to each other for nearly a year at that point, and somehow Hermann had totally avoided ending up on the Internet. When he received a response, he tore the letter open hastily, and Hermann's photo fell out with a note on the back -- “Quid pro quo, Dr. Geiszler. -HG.” When he looked at Hermann's portrait, Newt's heart flipped over in his chest for reasons he couldn't pinpoint -- maybe his long eyelashes, framing big brown eyes with a twinkle of warmth within; maybe his dark hair, curling around his forehead and ears; maybe his cheekbones that looked like they could cut diamond. Whatever it was, he slid the photo into his wallet, sneaking peeks at it occasionally while paying for coffee or searching for his bus pass. Hermann couldn't have looked more different than him... and he loved it.

Looking back on it now, it was almost comical how badly their first meeting had gone. He'd expected them to hit it off immediately, and by that point, he'd decided that he'd throw it all out there for Hermann to see, even the crush he'd secretly nursed since they'd exchanged photos. Newt had expected his admiration to reflect back upon himself, but somehow he'd blown it. Hermann _hated_ him. So, he reciprocated in kind, ignoring the ache in his chest each time he remembered Hermann's reaction to him. Repulsion. Disgust. It _hurt._

They spent the next ten years working across from each other, their lab split into mirror images of one another, equal and totally opposite. Hermann kept his side obnoxiously neat and organized; Newt often forgot his dishes and had no idea where half his paperwork ever ended up. And Hermann hated that too, oh yes. In fact, Newt often exaggerated his predilection for mess, just to piss Hermann off. He'd been such a little shit.

Some things never change, I guess.

But then, they _did_ change, irrevocably. After he’d Drifted with the Kaiju brain, nothing felt the same again. Almost immediately after the event, he could feel their eyes on him, watching. He knew he’d probably not survive the next one -- and he _knew_ there’d be a next one, as soon as Hermann had rushed in on Pentecost’s heels. He knew that fascist would give the order, and he’d likely go into cardiac arrest or have a fuckin’ stroke, that bastard didn’t care.

Hermann cared. In fact, he’d cared so much he volunteered to Drift with him. Drift _for_ him, to save him from the brunt of the Kaiju hivemind. Newt hadn’t even known what to say then. He’d gotten a strange impulse to encourage Hermann, and he’d responded in kind -- in that weird, nerdy way that he had of getting overexcited. Later on, he’d miss that.

The rest of it all ran together now. He’d get flashes of those days after the War “ended” sometimes. They looked to him like quick glances into a mirror: brief, but clear as day, then gone as quickly as they came. Some of him stuck, like a knife in his belly, but he’d bought a fifth of vodka for those days.

Now, he stands on top of a skyscraper in Tokyo, watching the end of the world from a front row seat. By now, he’s realized this is really happening, that he's succeeded and only moments stood between himself and oblivion. He watches himself deploy the Rippers, watches the Megakaiju form, just as he’d imagined it would. He watches the Jaegers get thrown around like action figures. The Precursors threw a party in his brain, celebrating the end of this pest race that had laid claim to the world they desired. Newt feels his emotions swirling, twisting inside him -- fear of the end, relief at finally achieving release from his mental bondage, sadness at having failed everyone he cared about, guilt. Immense guilt.

 _Can’t you stop thinking about that man for five minutes?_ They screeched, scratching against the sides of his skull with their cruel fingers.

He’s oddly calm, until he gazes by chance at the building across from him -- another towering skyscraper, its reflective windows giving him a good look at himself in all his glory. In the dark glass, a mirror image -- the first he’s seen in five, maybe six years. Seeing himself, tablet in hand, eyes ablaze with manic joy (and fear) nearly broke something in him, and he quickly turned away, ignoring the way his heart pounded against his ribcage to watch the Megakaiju’s unimpeded march to Mt. Fuji. Soon, he wouldn’t have to worry about guilt and regret. He wouldn’t have to think about what he’d say to Hermann, assuming they’d have ever let Newt speak to him again. He’d never -- he’d never --

He’d never come up with a Plan B.

It all falls apart. Honestly, it doesn’t even surprise him. Someone plants a fist in his face. Newt wonders if the shards of him will make the knuckles bleed. _“You brute! ...don’t have to hurt him!_

Curtains.

* * *

 

Newt doesn’t know how long they have kept him in this cell. The first 48 hours had totally exhausted him; the Precursors sabotaged his body completely, raging against their restraints and screaming at Pentecost Jr. and his Rangers. On the third day, they decided they’d had enough and vanished, leaving Newt’s head empty and smooth like a marble. Would it clatter and bounce like one, should he decide the concrete would make a better home for it? Or would it simply crumple like an eggshell?

Eventually, he rises from his cot and moves to the mirror on the wall. He can’t break this one; they’ve covered it with Plexiglass and anyway, he’s too tired to summon up the energy. When the Precursors left him, they’d taken his will with them.

The man Newt sees looks more like himself now than he has in ten years. His hair flies in all directions, no longer constricted by product, and his stubble has grown in longer than he’d ever remembered keeping it, even back in the Hong Kong days. He can see his tattoos peeking up from the low collar of his shirt, as if checking to make sure the coast is clear. On his cheek, a colorful bruise blossoms across his cheek, and the corner of his lip throbs with a deep cut. Frankly, he looks like shit… and yet he can’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not that it would matter much longer, of course. He’d rot in prison for the rest of his life, or they’d throw him into an institution. They’d never believe that the Precursors had really left, and in a way, they’d be right.

The door behind him opens suddenly, and there stands Hermann.

Hermann. Newt’s legs almost give out, but he locks his knees and stares into his eyes. God, he looks older. Lines he doesn’t recognize frame his mouth and crease his brow. His hair curls over his forehead, finally grown out of that awful bowl cut he kept giving himself. Newt keeps coming back to Hermann’s eyes, still big and warm, brimming with tears he’s desperately trying to control. He purses his lips as he approaches him, and Newt spots the telltale twitch of Hermann’s jaw -- he’s trying not to lose it.

“Newton, it’s -- you’re awake.”

“Obviously, Hermann. Brilliant deduction.” Hermann flinches a bit and Newt bites his tongue hard. The Precursors might have gone, but clearly they’d left their asshole protocol intact. He realizes that Hermann probably doesn’t even know they’ve left him, but figures he’d not believe him in any case.

“Newton, can we talk?” His eyes plead even more desperately than his voice.

“Aren’t we talking right now? Are you paying attention?”

“Y-yes, but I mean…” Hermann sighs, looks down at the ground and Newt watches his hand work around the head of his cane, his knuckles flashing white. “Not here. I want to take you home with me. They've given me permission, and I'm sure you'd prefer a bed.”

Newt says nothing. He can’t even imagine a response to this. He can still feel the flesh of Hermann’s neck on his palms, he could see the bruises purpling underneath his collar, and yet here he is, not only offering to free him but opening his door to him. Insane. He feels his head to bob up and down in some semblance of affirmation, and Hermann smiles in such a way that makes Newt’s stomach ache.

The Rangers escort them both to Hermann’s quarters; surprisingly, they don’t restrain him in anyway. Maybe Hermann had asked them not to. They walked for a time, taking an elevator up to the residence area of this unfamiliar Shatterdome, attracting glares and curious whispers along the way. He pushes down the urge to snarl at them.

“Don’t mind them, Newton.” Hermann whispers.

“I don’t.” He quips, and Hermann smiles, murmuring into Newton's ear so close he could feel his breath.

“There’s my Newton.”

The Rangers stop short of Hermann’s door, and he dismisses them with a wave of his hand. Awfully fuckin’ brave of him, to trust that Newton won't try to pop his head off again. Brave, or maybe hopeful.

Hermann's quarters initially look much the same as he remembered, but upon closer inspection, Newt saw things that simply didn't belong in the living space of Hermann Gottlieb: a figurine of Trespasser on the shelf above his bed, papers and books stacked on his personal desk with no rhyme or reason, a coffee cup left on his bedside table. Just a spot of chaos.

“Hermann, you sure these are your quarters?” The corners of Hermann’s mouth turn upward as he sits down on his bed, folding his hands on the head of his cane.

“Yes, I’m sure. Ten years has changed me a great deal, just as it’s changed you.”

“Yeah, except you didn’t try to destroy the world.”  

Hermann doesn’t answer for a moment, simply motions with his hand toward the bed, running his fingers over the sheets beside him. Newt joins him, avoiding his gaze and leaving just enough space between them to prevent accidental contact. He doesn’t know why. Two weeks ago, he’d have given his right arm just to _see_ Hermann again. If Hermann notices, he doesn’t say a word.

“Newton, tell me the truth: are they really gone?” Newt had forgotten that he’d even told anyone, but now he recalled the young woman in a lab coat, scribbling on a clipboard, her eyes dodging his at every opportunity.

“Yeah. They’re gone.” Newt pauses, balling his hand into a fist. “As gone as they’ll ever be, I guess.”

Hermann takes this hand, the one he’d scarred up punching his mirror, and runs his finger over the knuckles. “How did this happen?”  
  
“Did something stupid, but what else is new, right?” Hermann presses a finger to Newton’s lips.

“Hush. Enough of that.” Newt finally manages to look Hermann in the eyes, and sees himself reflected in them. He fights back the urge to scream and push Hermann away, to run and run until he tumbles into the ocean. Hermann doesn’t _deserve_ this. He doesn’t realize that he hadn’t saved him at all; he’d just dragged the bones and skin back home. The Precursors had eaten the rest of him away. 

“You’re going to regret bringing me here.”

Hermann chuckles. “I’m not going to dignify that statement with a response, Newton.”

“I’m not myself anymore.” Newt clenches his teeth. “You should have let Nick throw me off the side of the building.”

“First of all, his name is Nate--”

“Whatever.”

“Second of all, how on earth can you tell me you’re gone, when already you’ve found something to argue about with me?” Hermann’s eyes shine, and something in Newt’s chest twists so tightly he fears that he’ll snap in half.

“Hermann, I d-don’t know how to come back from this. I don’t even… recognize myself anymore.” He starts shaking now, and Hermann pulls him against his chest, stroking his hair with his slender fingers.

“You don’t have to. I remember you. Don’t you know, Newton?” Hermann cradles his head in his hands; they’re cool on his face, and Newton thinks he could stay like this forever. “When we Drifted, we left parts of ourselves to the other. An inheritance, if you will. When I look at you, I don’t see the man I met twenty years ago, but he had gone even before you left.” Hermann smiles again, his lips trembling. “I’ll be your mirror, Newton. I’ll remind you of what you lost, what they took from you.”

“You shouldn’t have to do that. You don’t have to…” Newton whispers, his voice cracking under the pressure of the lump swelling in his throat.

“I know I don’t, you silly man, but I suppose I’ve gotten more bull-headed lately. Now, where could I  have gotten _that_ from?” Newton doesn’t answer, but he does raise his hands to Hermann’s face, running his thumbs over the sharp edge of his cheeks. Together they formed a mirror image, two bodies, two hearts reaching for one another.

“I don’t deserve this.” _I don’t deserve you._

“You deserve everything I have to give you, Newton Geiszler. I kept it here for you, all these years.” Hermann takes Newton gently by the wrist and moves his hand to his chest. He can feel Hermann’s heart beating and that breaks him apart at last. He feels his body crumble and Hermann catches him, lets him scream and wail into his lap, pets his hair. He hears Hermann’s voice as if from the end of a long tunnel -- _It’s over now, you’re here with me. You’re safe._

For the first time in forever, he believes it.

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
